


An Eye for the Details - a Trilogy

by BakerTumblings



Series: Eyes Wide Open [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Insightful John, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-06-02 23:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: John's peripheral vision allows him to see some special interactions with his son Sameer and others who care for the whole family.++This is a continuation of the story of the child John conceived in Afghanistan who was brought to London when his mother died.  It is probably necessary to have read the first of this Eyes Wide Open series entitled "Quite an Eyeful" to make any sense of this at all.  Enjoy!





	1. Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For as much as Sherlock John and Rosie can provide for Sameer, there is still something sort of specific that they can't exactly give him. Molly is summoned.

Sameer had accompanied John to retrieve Rosie from her morning activity, a little playgroup that she had been a part of for quite some time. The leader, a vivacious woman with dark eyes and a bright smile, had seen John approach, scooped up Rosie to hug her close, and had delivered her to her father, the update lively and the physical affection over-the-top with hugs, kisses, smiles, nuzzles, and an affectionate squeeze before setting Rosie down. 

John's usual litany of greeting her, asking about her day, was interrupted slightly and derailed a little as he caught sight of Sameer's expression.

The boy had been - and continued - watching Rosie's teacher walk away, taking a few animated skips over to one of the other children who was leaving. The hugs, the touches, the fondness was such an intrinsic part of her that John barely noticed anymore, so it didn't even catch his eye. But it had definitely caught Sameer's. His eyes were riveted, the set of his mouth just interested, his body language as if he'd forgotten all about himself as he watched.

His face, longing. Yearning, even. Eyes wistful.

John stopped his words mid-sentence, giving Sameer his full attention then cutting his gaze over to watch the teacher interact with another child. He tried considering this afresh, to imagine this, imagine her, as if he were Sameer. She was affectionate, warm, smiling, and oh, so sincere. And although John hugged or held Sameer, or sat with him during activities, occasionally holding him on his lap when they watched the telly, John was not at all like this teacher. He was muscle and angles compared to Rosie's group leader, who was soft, and curvy, and cuddly.

The tugging on his heartstrings as he considered what this woman could give, what she routinely gave to Rosie, was poignant as he could see all of Sameer's pain, his sadness, his desire, clear on his face. It was short-lived, and they began the journey home as usual, the three of them talking, making plans, exploring along the way. Although John was glad that Sameer wasn't upset, he did notice a few times on the journey home that he seemed quieter than usual. A few times John caught him playing idly with the necklace, the sun and moon pendant that he kept on a chain around his neck. It had belonged to his mother Laila.

John Watson. Soldier, surgeon, blogger, partner, father. For Sameer, apparently he needed to find a way to fill in the gap, to become just a little bit more.

++

"You're saying, what, exactly?" Molly had heard, had listened, had already asked a few questions. And still needed clarification. "I just would never want to overstep, or do something wrong."

John's smile and nod was very understanding. "Dinner today, no agenda. Just be your normal friendly self. Trust me, he's met you already, he knows who you are. You've been around him, so ... and of course, he's going to love you." They'd been to Barts a few times, had met Molly there. She joined them once for a meal at a little cafe, and she'd been over to the flat a time or two as well.

"What if he doesn't understand me?" Molly was ready to go on with more concerns, and would have if John hadn't shushed her gently.

"We've used Skype for live translator resources on the computer if we've needed to, so someone will be available, and it's so easy, trust me. We don't need it much, the kid is already almost just absorbing English while he sleeps or something. He understands almost everything, and is more confident in his speaking. But having it available is peace of mind for all of us."

"Right, I understand all that. But, what about ... the rest." Molly's smile faltered just a little. "It sounds simple enough, truly. But." She sighed, looked away, awkward. "What if ... I don't want to upset him." Molly had just named her fear, and her eyes snapped back and bore into John's, pleading with him to understand. "What if I upset him?"

"I know, and I'm not sure what to tell you. For all he's already doing, I really think he's going to be fine with it. And, if he doesn't want to, that's up to him, and it's not like we won't be there. You read people so well, Molls, you'll _know_." John smiled, thinking of how well she could read Sherlock now compared to the crush she used to have on him. They had moved quite far, and quite functionally, past that. "You'll know if he's okay. And when. Culturally, Afghan children and parents are not all that demonstrative. But he just lost his mum, and all he's got is Sherlock and me. I just thought he was missing it perhaps? And we immediately thought of you. You know, someone sweet and oh, I don't know, I suppose younger, more mother-age than Mrs. H. That's all."

"All right." Her tentative expression let John know that she was still a little fearful. "I'll give it a go." 

++

It isn't until later, when John is tidying the kitchen and Rosie is in the bath when they realise that Molly has indeed summoned Sameer over to her corner of the room. They are sitting on the floor by the window, where they are looking at one of the books that Sameer was trying to read. The book, however, John sees, is soon discarded, forgotten. Molly speaks to him quietly, earnestly, and while they are otherwise engaged, he starts getting Rosie to bed. John returns to find them still whispering quietly to each other, their heads low and together, seated close on the floor. Molly at one point pulls out her mobile, and flips through what must be some of her pictures. Earlier, the conversation had been with them a little bit apart; Sameer had been keeping his distance. But over the course of discussion, he has moved closer and closer, and by the time Molly is showing him pictures (of her cat, most likely, John thinks), Sameer is leaning into her, an elbow against her, his head right up against her arm as he looks and listens.

It is like they're in their own little world, paying little attention to the rest of what's going on. They are relaxed, casual, and John sees that whatever Molly had been concerned about is no longer even in her thoughts. No one bothers them, though John and Sherlock cast the occasional curious, surreptitious glance in that direction from time to time. After a bit, they notice that Sameer's head is low, downcast, as Molly's phone is cast off and she is still speaking. Her eyes are wide and earnest. Sameer is listening, rapt, and no longer meeting Molly's eyes, as she assumes a bit more urgent posture as she talks quietly, softly, to him.

There is a nod from Sameer, another nod, and then he looks up with a soft yet anxious smile. It is relieved and a little bit shy.

John is holding his breath just a little when Molly presses up to a kneeling position and her hands draw Sameer up to his feet and then into her arms. Even from across the room, the men can see that Molly is being so cautious, tentative, and gentle as she leads Sameer into her hug. Slowly, she adjusts her hands, tucking Sameer's head into the warm place under her chin and he just melts against her. His arms are tight, and the seconds tick into minutes. And then they just sort of suspend, comfortable, unrushed, peaceful.

As John watches very closely, he feels Sherlock's hand slip into his own, squeeze twice before releasing, and then they see Sameer's shoulder shake a time or two. There are a few silent sobs, obviously, and Molly is speaking, hushed comforting words as she holds him. The hug radiates much emotion and John thinks it is one of the most tender moments he's seen in a very long while. The hand stroking the back of Sameer's head rubs, slows, and finally stills but they do not immediately move apart.

John realises that this is probably the first womanly hug for the boy since his mum. For Sameer, it probably feels like a lifetime ago and in some ways of course it is. Though John has certainly held, hugged, touched, and cared for Sameer, showing it physically as any parent does, he had recognised that it is quite different, that maternal softness, the gentleness of a woman holding him. The reminders. And now watching, he can see that Sameer couldn't have expressed it, but that he'd been missing it. Desperately.

Behind Sameer's back, Molly's hand comes up to her own face to wipe away her tears. She resolutely does not look at the other adults and steels herself with another smile. It is as sweet as it is resolute.

Someone draws apart then, or perhaps it is mutual, and before they separate completely, Molly lets her hand come up on the side of Sameer's face, leaving them eye to eye. She cups his cheeks fondly and intently as she holds his focus. They are hand-to-cheek and nose-to-nose, and Molly smiles at him so genuinely and then ruffles his hair a bit as she whispers something else, sighs a little and eases back. Sameer watches her, clinging still with his eyes, as she begins to stand up. After so long on her knees, though, she is stiff and a moment later she chuckles at herself and groans then holds out a hand to him for assistance. Grateful for the distraction, he grins easily back at her as he offers his hand.

There are biscuits, a small glass of milk offered and accepted by the youngest still-awake household member, and Molly asks casually if she could come back some night, if that would be okay. When both John and Sherlock easily but quickly agree, they see a very relieved and relaxed smile come over Sameer's face.

"Maybe tomorrow?" he asks, his eyes bright. Molly laughs with him and ruffles at his hair again.

++

Sameer removed a gift box he'd been hiding under the couch. He was grinning as he handed John the brightly wrapped, heavy box.

It was Christmas Day, and Rosie had sounded her wake-up call while it was still dark outside, rousing the house. The adults staggered toward the kitchen and the tea-kettle and insisted that they be given a few more minutes of peace. It was not dark any longer, the morning passing with excitement and newness as Sameer experienced his first Christmas in London.

From the box, John pulled out a hinged, wooden frame that had been folded then wrapped in tissue paper. The holiday paper slid to the floor, forgotten, as John got his first glimpse of the gift from Sameer. "How on earth did you pull this off?" John asked almost reverently, brushing his finger over the edge of the picture frame. His eyes lit on the large, centre photo, of the four of them. He and Sherlock standing had been shoulder to shoulder when Molly had taken the picture a few weeks ago, what had seemed a spontaneous request. John's grin was almost alive, mouth open, laughing. Sherlock's expression had been impish for some reason, and John could vaguely recall him blurting out something ridiculous at the time. The kids were also at least looking at the camera and smiling - and the group had been well captured, saved, printed. "This is --" John swallowed over his suddenly dry mouth, and he paused, then took a long moment to reach out a hand toward Sameer, pulling him close. "And wow, look at these others." John gave a brief glance, seeing other photos, knowing that some thought and planning had gone into the gift. "Incredible. Thank you."

Sameer smiled then, warm and excited, and he pointed to the frame. "You showed me the photos. The box of them. Molly helped. She made copies."

John blinked a moment, then recalled that, indeed, he had inadvertently supplied the other framed photos. He nodded as he realised how the project had taken shape and come together. Molly's assistance, most assuredly. 

Since that earliest connection with Molly and Sameer had gone so well, John had done his best to ensure that their family got together with Molly with some regularity. Over the past months, she had come over a few nights when he and Sherlock had plans, and there had been a few excursions, meals, and random encounters at Barts. They had gone to see a movie together, the five of them.

And then a few weeks ago, in early December, Sameer had asked somewhat out of the blue if he could look at some old photos.

"For a school project?" John remembered asking. 

"No. I just want to see them."

John had returned to the sitting room with a box of photos, most of them randomly thrown in, and he, Rosie, and Sameer spent a nice time looking through them. There was a vast assortment, including a few from John's childhood, Rosie's baby days, and Sameer of course was especially interested in those of John in uniform.

The box had sat there for a few days, and if anyone noticed that a few photos mysteriously went missing from it, no one said anything.

It had been a few days after the request to see the photos, maybe week or so later that Molly stopped by with a mortuary box, a random gift for Sherlock that John knew better than to inspect too closely. She chatted a little with Rosie and John, and in conversation between Sameer, Molly, and John, the topic came up about Molly getting Sameer's company to help her with some Christmas baking. "So, I was thinking, Sameer, maybe this week ..." Her word caught as Sameer hesitated mid-movement. "I was thinking maybe Sameer would like to come spend the afternoon at my flat. Meet my cat." Molly worried at her finger, her lip, nervously, hoping that she wasn't acting too poorly. "Can I have him for the afternoon maybe?"

Sherlock had cleared his throat, one eye narrowed over his mobile as he glared at her, apparently having noticed something amiss. Before he could fire off a scathing remark or otherwise be too annoying, John took a step closer to him and halted with one foot over the toes of his bare feet, a threat. "Fine," John answered.

Later, Sherlock smirked in annoyance. "You know they're up to something."

"Of course." John smiled at him. "I think Sameer wants to do something for the holidays. We're going to let him." It was as much a directive toward Sherlock as anything else. "For pity's sake, they probably want to bake us biscuits. Or a holiday gingerbread structure." Sherlock made a displeased face. "I'll let you destroy it when no one else is around."

A huff of annoyance. "I don't want him - or Molly for that matter - thinking they're getting away with anything."

"You don't always have to prove you're the smartest person in the room."

"Actually I disagree. I have a reputation to maintain." He was good natured but there was a bit of seriousness under the jibe. "I mean, perhaps at age eight, that I could overlook. But Molly has a medical degree."

"Piss off," John teased back. "This is about Sameer wanting to do something for us, and it would be terribly mean of you to ruin it for him."

"I'll tell them afterward, then, that I had it all figured out."

_"Don't ruin it."_

"Then I'll just tell Molly."

"I wouldn't recommend that either. You still ask her for the occasional favour. I'd think you'd hate for your morgue access or body supplies to be curtailed in any way now, would you?" There was an answering huff. "Fine, you can sulk all you want. Just don't take this away from them. It's not worth it."

++

The wood frame in John's grasp was softly polished deep cherry resonating with darker striations. The centre photo of the whole family was flanked by several smaller ones: Mary and a very young Rosie to the right, with Rosie in the mid-ground, held by Mary in profile. They were both smiling and the picture could have been sad but wasn't. Another small photo, from the christening, with John, Sherlock, Mary, Rosie, and Molly. To the left of the group photo was Laila. It was the same one - much smaller - that the Military Liaison office had brought when they asked John if he recognised her. Her eyes were brown and her smile warm, gentle, and young. Next to her was one of John, mid-task, in military fatigues. His hair was short, his face younger, and he was sporting a wide smile. His shoulders looked especially broad as he held a first aid kit in front of a sandy backdrop in Afghanistan.

"It's lovely." John brushed his fingers over the images, sensing how special it must have been for Sameer to assemble, and he could well imagine Molly labouring over the poses and the efforts to keep it tasteful and meaningful. "Your smile is a lot like your mother's."

"Molly said the same thing."

Rosie elbowed her way into John's lap, no longer content unless she was right in the middle of things. She considered the grouping, then pointed at both of the smaller photos. "My mama. And your mama." Her brow wrinkled. "Did they know each other?"

"No," John said carefully. "But we're all one family now, aren't we?"

Rosie'd had enough, and started to wriggle as she extricated herself from John's arms. "Maybe they're having tea together in heaven."

From across the room, Sherlock managed to utter a few words-turned growl followed by a ridiculous, exaggerated cough. John was fairly certain the words he'd managed to keep unintelligible from the children sounded like 'good lord.' He didn't disagree.

"Do you think they are?" Sameer turned a puzzled look on John. "Having tea in heaven?"

John found that honesty was the best answer. "I don't know." Sameer didn't seem dissatisfied with that answer, and John saw an out so he took it. "But come to think of it, tea sounds like a nice idea to me. Are you interested too?"

"Sure." Sameer had discovered that he didn't dislike tea provided it was sweet enough and light enough. "And later, Molly and Uncle Mycroft will be over for Christmas dinner?"

"And Mrs. Hudson." Before getting up off the couch to take care of getting a round of beverages, he snuggled a bit with Sameer. "Thanks again for the frame. It's perfect." 

~~ fin ~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one, but I wanted a bit of tenderness for these guys and for Molly. I hope I have done it justice. 
> 
> Be quite assured that Sameer also has his mother’s photo in a small frame right next to his bed. He falls asleep fairly certain that she watches over him.
> 
> I am always willing to consider suggestions for edits and like to make sure things are clear. Please let me know gently if you spot something that needs a little help.
> 
> ++
> 
> There is not a doubt in my mind that hugging and physical touch for every child is a driving need that provides security and hope. Even more so for Sameer in this story, who had never had a male parent role at all, to suddenly lose his mother. Kudos to John for paying attention and determining how to carefully, respectfully, and gently figure it out. And of course ... Molly to the rescue.


	2. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short tale of Mycroft's helpful role with Sameer. 
> 
> With a little nudge from John of course.

"I'm not going." Sherlock, if he'd been holding an umbrella in his hand, would have pounded it into the floor just as Mycroft had just done to him. _Punctuation with attitude_ , John thought, _thy surname is Holmes._

For a brief moment, John imagined the satisfaction of being a real, paid referee. Like the ones in the football match he'd watched the other night with Greg Lestrade. He wished he had a black and white referee shirt, whistle, and a yellow card to hand someone. Or both of them.

"Yes, you most certainly will," Mycroft sneered back.

"Sod off!"

From across the room, a small voice piped up. "That's a bad word. Oooooh." Rosie was sitting, listening, colouring. And for all she tuned out, like being asked to put something away or go and get her coat, she certainly managed to hear every little thing that John wished she wouldn't.

Sherlock turned, and was just about to unleash something else - most likely unkind, likely lambasting his brother - and he had Rosie's full attention, when John spoke up to preserve some of the sanity in the room, namely his own. And their daughter's sensitive disposition - when she chose to be that way, anyway, those expressive little eyes filling up seemingly at will. Or parroting words not meant for young ears.

John's quick words sliced into the argument. "Enough."

Two pairs of irritated Holmes' eyes turned to stare daggers at him, and John wondered if the yellow card would be enough or if a red card might be needed. It occurred to him that neither would probably have any clue what being handed a card even meant, yellow or red.

"We don't have to decide right this minute." John tried to lighten his tone and the mood. "We can talk about it, it's a few days --"

"I'm not --" Sherlock began to protest.

"It is not optional --" Mycroft said at the same time.

"Leave me the details."

Mycroft looked smug. "Thank you."

The next word was quite close to a whinge. "Jo-ohn!" Sherlock looked incredulous that John seemed to be, in effect betraying him thus. "I cannot and will not --"

John put a hand on Mycroft's elbow, corralling him toward the door. "I'll do what I can," John assured him. "If possible, we'll try to stop in briefly."

The pompous look that Mycroft gave his brother as John shooed him from the sitting room was almost enough to get John to change his mind about helping. And thankfully, Sherlock was entirely too annoyed to see the small fleeting, smirky exchange between Mycroft and John as the door snicked closed. Definitely seeing that would not have helped in the least.

 _"No."_ Sherlock answered immediately, forcefully. John well recognised the stubborn look on his face. _"Absolutely n--"_

"What's gotten into you?" He spoke quietly, knowing Sameer and Rosie were still watching them. "What is the problem with going to this ... get-together or whatever?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock hissed back. "It was the way he told me, the demand. You saw his attitude, and ..." His words trailed off as John let out a short burst of laughter and Sherlock got indignant seeing John's amusement at his expense. "Stop it, this is not funny."

"Oh my god, yes it is," John breathed, low and for Sherlock's hearing only. "You're as ridiculous now as the day I met you. More, in fact!" John brushed at his face, still speaking quietly. "You and your brother, oh the drama." Had the kids not been in the room, John might've been tempted to put the back of his hand to his forehead in an exaggerated swoon to drive the point home. And stir the pot a little.

"He probably wants to parade me around, in front of some bloody dignitary, and I have absolutely no interest in helping him in any way." Then, silently, stoic, and mostly annoyed enough for the world to notice, Sherlock flung himself into his chair, sulking. John tried a few times to speak, but Sherlock was having no parts of it. Rosie and Sameer began bickering a little over the assortment of crayons and where to keep them between them. Sameer was usually very patient, but Rosie - on occasion - managed to instigate a little trouble.

"See?" John nudged Sherlock's shoe as he gestured to where Sameer and Rosie were colouring, every now and again one of them moving the container slightly closer, then back, then closer, a tennis match of crayon containers. It was already escalating. "You and Mycroft set a terrible example."

With a minimum of steps, John secured another small container from the small crate of toys, dumped half of them into it, separating them so that each kid had their own.

Sameer didn't particularly respond beyond a breathy 'thanks' but Rosie wasn't placated. "He's got more blue, and I need one!"

"Rosie."

She knew exactly what John was expecting, and though she huffed, she did finally add the word he wanted. "Please."

Sameer blinked, wordless, held out the blue for her, which she took. "May I have one of your green?" He asked carefully, and before John had time to make even a small sound in his throat, he amended, "Please?"

Rosie, the blue crayon not leaving her hand with which she was filling in a flower on the page, held out the container so he could pick the one he wanted.

John made a grand gesture at the children. "Do you see that? You and Mycroft should learn a thing or two. Compromise. Make a deal to get what you want. And to keep peace."

There was mumbling, for which John was grateful, given the tendency he had to mutter things he'd rather Sameer and Rosie not hear too often. Or repeat.

"Seems like a no-brainer to me. Go. It's not a big deal, you even said so yourself." John could feel that this was going to work out all right. "Or, ask for a different crayon."

"I have no need of a crayon from my brother." Sherlock cast another disdainful glance at John. "Now who's being ridiculous."

"Not literally, obviously. Get something you want in exchange. You have nothing to lose."

The look Sherlock pinned on him would have been frightening if John didn't know better, that Sherlock meant him no harm. "What are you saying: Bribery? Extortion? Hostage-taking?" Sherlock growled, though he did frown at how the youngsters had figured their solution out rather peaceably.

"No. Think of it perhaps as a reward. What does Mycroft have that you want?"

"Nothing! I want nothing from him." His words came out something between a hiss and a sneer.

"I disagree." The pout on Sherlock's face grew a little mean at being contradicted, then, and John smiled with triumph. Raising his chin, he offered the suggestion. "How about tickets to that sold out musician's show, you know, that David what's-his-name, you've been wanting to see. Didn't you say there's a performance coming up here in town? Connections, yeah? Those tickets might be yours, as a reward, if you ask nicely and do as he's asked."

++

When Sherlock wouldn't contact Mycroft to relay the news - and make his request - John took matters into his own hands. From Sherlock's laptop, he accessed Mycroft's contact information, touched a button, and ended up with a video phone call. Mostly, he was hoping that the brothers would be on their collectively better behaviour if the kids could hear both sides of the conversation. There were still times, though John wouldn't admit to it, he found more than a little amusement at how Sherlock and his brother interacted. And in this particularly instance, well, he had something riding on the outcome of the whole endeavor.

The call connected, and Mycroft could be seen at his massive desk, leaning back, relaxed and casual, though he probably wasn't that relaxed, in all reality.

Sherlock didn't mince words. "I'll agree to go, brother, on one condition."

Mycroft's expression turned to one that made it seem he'd just licked a lemon. "I'm not granting your wish until I hear what it is."

"David Garrett."

"Never heard of him."

"Oh piss off. Yes you most certainly have." John gave a sharp look over at Rosie, who hadn't seemed to hear that one. This time anyway.

"Fine." Mycroft snorted. "Is he that one who plays the ... _fiddle_ or something ridiculous?" John placed a warm hand over Sherlock's bristly arm to calm him down after the word 'fiddle' was spoken. Mycroft snickered and continued, "What does that have to do with me?"

"I want tickets."

On the screen, Mycroft's eye narrowed. John made that sound again, deep in his throat, that he hoped was inaudible to Mycroft. Sherlock glared, sidelong, but added a quiet and mildly threatening, "Please."

"I see."

"Prime seating." The clarification raised one of Mycroft's eyebrows. "No further back than third row. Nothing on the outside edges."

Screen-image Mycroft looked between he and John, back at Sherlock, and for a moment, it appeared that he was debating giving in. "How many?"

Sherlock glanced at John, who glanced at Sameer and Rosie while shaking his head, and very subtly shook his head no. "Just two."

"Fine."

 _"Fine."_ And with that, Sherlock stuck out his tongue at Mycroft the instant before he disconnected the call.

John was just shaking his head as Rosie, spying the gesture, commented on Sherlock's having been rude. A few hours later, when John had asked Rosie to do something and instead, she stuck her tongue out at him, John deposited Rosie, squirming and protesting, into Sherlock's lap. "Here. You can explain yourself and why it absolutely is not okay to do that." He raised a brow, considering that there were definitely times he felt he actually had three children living with him. Of course, he was sleeping with the ring-leader. He pointed a finger at them. "And then I want an apology from you both." He counted himself just a little bit fortunate that she hadn't picked up on his _piss off_ comment. Not this time anyway.

++

John had set this up a few weeks before, and it was fairly big favour. But as he'd said to Sherlock, sometimes you had to ask directly for what you wanted.

"It's not guaranteed." Mycroft was shaking his head. "You better than anyone should be well aware of that."

"And the opportunity may not arise. But if it does, well ..." John sighed just a little, knowing Mycroft was right. "You're in a position to at least know about it. It was just an idea."

"Visiting officials from Afghanistan are not uncommon, of course, given the political and economic climate. In fact. I could even see what I could do to hasten things along perhaps." There was a fond but wry grin as he cocked his head, considering. Then he opened a tab on his computer, a few clicks. "What city did Sameer live in, best as you know? I could try to arrange something, of course."

"I'm not sure. When I was stationed there, where I got shot, that was outside of Kandahar. I thought she had moved north of that, not as far as Kabul. This was the woman's information from the Military Liaison's office." John glanced at the map that Mycroft had opened. "The language is more important than the specific region or area, I suppose. Dari is official, the more common language, and I just ... don't want him to lose all connections to his heritage. And the country is not all that big, it would still be appreciated."

"Sherlock is the bigger variable." Mycroft frowned just a little. "We could do this without Sherlock, you know. I could fairly easily set up --"

"Family, Mycroft. All together." John knew Mycroft was right, but in his gut, he knew it would be best if they were all there, if it was more casual.

"We could kidnap him."

"God no, just stop." John realised that the pronoun was unspecified. "You did mean, not Sameer, but to kidnap Sher --" but he cut off his sentence when he realised Mycroft was having him on. He laughed at his own reaction to something that Mycroft was certainly still capable of arranging.

"Please?" There was a very rarely seen, playful tone to Mycroft's voice, which made John laugh harder. "Oh, all right. I'll see. But you're asking a lot."

"Not really. You push his buttons, and it won't take much." Mycroft looked back steadily, so John clarified. "You excel at it. Both of you seem to thrive on it. In fact, there are times I'd wager that you love it."

"He might fool you. He might ask me for something in exchange that I might be unable to deliver."

John smiled at that. "No. The stage is already sort of set, so to speak." John had already managed to locate a musician that Sherlock respected, was interested in, played a few of the songs, clicked on enough links that some of the adverts had already showed up on Sherlock's computer. And one of them had a tour coming up in a few weeks.

"I'll do what I can." 

"Worst case scenario, I'll have to tell him." John knew that would challenge Mycroft as he appeared to surrender.

Mycroft actually shuddered at that. "Perish the thought." His grin afterwards was nothing short of sinister, and John was left with a niggling feeling that he perhaps was out of his league, that he had set something in motion ... something apparently dramatic, and John questioned his own idea to set anything in motion between the siblings. Mycroft interrupted those doubts with a hasty directive. "Now, if you'll excuse me, John, I may have a few deals to strike on your behalf." John hesitated again, feeling uneasy, which skyrocketed to full out worry when Mycroft said, just as conniving as he could, "Trust me."

"Not bloody likely."

++

"This is stupid." Sherlock said for the fifth time since they'd arrived, as servers brought around little trays of family friendly hors d'oeuvres, beverages, and napkins for the guests. They were in a garden reception, this event Mycroft had invited them to, and knew absolutely no one in attendance (yet) at the very small gathering. Sameer and Rosie had found some amusement in one of the many fountains, but John was concerned that they probably wouldn't hold their interest for long.

"Mycroft, I swear --" Sherlock sneered at his brother. "No one's even here yet, just your hired help and your office minions and --"

"Trust me. Not only will those tickets, David Barnett --"

 _"Garrett."_ Sherlock's face was almost venomous.

"-- be worth it, but ..." Mycroft, calmly, patiently looked around, and caught sight of an approaching car, one of his, just coming to a halt. "Ah, there they are." To Sherlock and John, Mycroft drew closer and said, "Perhaps try not to offend, Sherlock, when you introduce yourselves to the family that has just arrived."

John took a deep breath, and it caught Sherlock's attention for a brief moment, and John tried to shrug as if he hadn't been caught displaying his nervousness. Mycroft nodded, smiling somewhat mysteriously. "Trust me. Just go say hello." Sherlock made a hideously awful face at his brother, one that made John grateful the kids were otherwise not paying attention. "You will not be disappointed." Mycroft smiled wanly, a little bit of secretive Cheshire cat in the insincerity. "And Sherlock?" he waited until Sherlock turned to look at him. "You might even enjoy it."

John doubted that very much. Particularly if - when - Sherlock sussed out all the details.

++

"John Watson," he said by way of introduction, holding out a hand. "This is Sherlock Holmes. Our family: Sameer, and Rosie." They'd chosen this as the simplest way to explain things without getting too complicated.

A few names were spoken, the man introducing himself, his wife, their two sons and a daughter. "It is much nice to meet you." He smiled wanly then, corrected, " _very_ nice to meet you," and added, "Sorry, my English."

"It's fine."

"I am learning." The accent was thick, and John waited only about two seconds for Sherlock to get interested. "I practice."

Sherlock cast a long look at the man and his family, returning to the gentleman who stood there still smiling. He said, "Welcome to London. Where are you from?"

"Afghanistan. Ghazni, in particular. It is between Kandahar and, well, south of ..."

"Kabul, yes." John said slowly, completely and totally ignoring - but feeling - Sherlock's gaze on him. Instead, he watched Sameer's eyes perk up, curious, as he listened. John continued, "I served a few years in the country myself. And Sameer was born there."

The man smiled, a warm and friendly smile that was heartfelt and wholly kind. He reached out a hand toward Sameer to shake it, and unleashed a few sentences in Dari. Sameer listened, enrapt, his smile also broad. He spoke so quickly that John of course didn't recognise a single syllable, but Sameer was enthralled. The man chuckled then, and gave a quick nod at John and Sherlock then addressed Sameer. "Your English is probably better than mine," the man said, teasingly.

Sameer answered in Dari but with a grin back, and a few exchanges later they were swept away, laughing, the man's children also speaking together with Sameer. One of the children, a girl a bit older than Rosie, came to say hello and, then smiling, she commented that she admired her shoes.

"What is your name?" she asked, her English careful and faintly timid.

"Rosamund," she answered. "But mostly I go by Rosie."

"I'm Farrah."

"Oh, I have another friend _Sarah_." And within a few minutes they were exploring the fountain again, and a while later one of Mycroft's staff brought out a football and a couple of yard games for the children. Sameer and the two boys descended upon the tray of food that was set down on one of the wrought iron tables. Sameer was in no time drawn into a small-scale football game with all the children, Rosie tagging along and having a grand time. John and the two Holmes' passed the time very enjoyably with the other adults. The family, they found, was considering relocating for business reasons to London for a few years, and had come to visit, check out the area, and meet a few people before making their decision. He was a research scientist with enough scholarly English to engage with Sherlock on quite a few matters that Sherlock interacted with quite voraciously. John found the man's wife with some medical training, and in between conversation, they watched as the children had an enthusiastic good time. They vacillated between English and Dari, and John noted that Sameer did some translating for them, helping with words and making special efforts to be sure Rosie felt included. It was impressive, John noted, that Sameer could effortlessly switch back and forth between the languages, almost as if he didn't need to even think about it. Perhaps, John reasoned, he didn't.

Sameer came over at one point to where all the adults were seated with them with the oldest child of the visiting family along. To Mycroft, Sameer said, "He wants to know if you have any pets."

Under his breath, Sherlock whispered, "Not even a goldfish," and John shushed him.

"I do not." Mycroft's smile did not flinch, but John suspected that he'd heard his brother's muttering.

Sameer relayed this, and the pair chatted in rapid Dari for a moment, and then instead of interpreting, Sameer cued him through a few of the words and the boy asked Mycroft, "If we move here, father says I might get a dog. Maybe I'll bring it over to visit you?" Giving up on English, he spoke to Sameer again, who added, "He says you have a nice big yard that would be perfect for a big dog."

Mycroft did look surprised at that before hiding it again, and then he answered, carefully, "Oh, I don't really think that would be --" and as Sameer began to translate that, he could see the face of the other boy just fall. He softened it up. "We'll see."

++

The car, one of Mycroft's that would be taking them back across town to Baker Street, had barely driven away when Sherlock leaned in to John, close enough that his quiet voice was quite audible. And mildly amused. "You know, all of the plotting you did was unnecessary."

John blinked, forcing himself to maintain the status quo, and he let the puzzled expression he was so good at come to his face. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Oh please. Of course I could tell. You know how I feel about coincidence. Plus, you've been nervous, the whole set up, and perhaps you forget that I can read not only you, but my brother quite readily."

John couldn't quite stop the slight twitch of his mouth as he tried not to laugh, confirm, or deny. Instead, he offered a diversionary sentence, "It was a nice afternoon." Sherlock had apparently wanted a confession, so John suppressed a grin and added, "Sameer enjoyed that very much I think." 

It was spoken loudly enough to get his attention, and Sameer smiled initially, then whispered something in Dari abruptly. He looked dismayed for a moment, and John waited as he flipped around in the seat. "Wait, can we go back?"

"Did you leave something behind?"

"No. But I wanted to -- I needed to," he began.

John smiled, having had multiple conversations at home with his family about the difference between want and need, especially as Sameer learned the nuances of English, they were all more aware. Sherlock had become quite creative when explaining the many reasons why he _needed_ Mrs. Hudson to bake her famous ginger biscuits. None of them had been convinced at the time, but John hadn't been surprised when, the following day, a tin of them appeared in their kitchen.

"Needed to say thank you to ..." He looked still a little panic-stricken, desperately wanting very much to have the car turn around. "... to your ..."

"To my brother?" Sherlock asked, with a typical irritation in his tone.

"Uncle Mycroft." Rosie supplied this, as if it were the most natural thing.

"Uncle Mycroft. Is that ...?" he repeated, then began to ask John if it was all right to refer to him that way.

"Of course. _Uncle Mycroft_ will be thrilled." Sherlock jumped right in before John could perhaps be more tactful with his vocal inflections.

"Can we go back?" Sameer asked again, as the car continued to move along toward home.

"I don't think so. It's been a long day, and ..."

Sherlock interrupted. "I don't think it's entirely Uncle Mycroft you should be saying thank you to." He took a deep breath, as if he were going to launch into a dissertation on how he had managed to connect all the details. John laid a cautionary hand on his knee, a quiet request, a calming touch, and it was enough to settle him for a moment as the men held a few seconds of eye contact, Sherlock hearing the silent question, the request to let things alone. "Although, I suppose it was his house. And his food."

"His car," Rosie said, stretching and twisting to push at some of the buttons on the door next to her which of course had the child-locks quite enabled. They had learned that lesson quite quickly many months ago.

"And his connections, perhaps, though certainly not his idea." Sherlock winked discreetly at John.

John cleared his throat again, pressing onward before Sameer asked anything else or picked up on Sherlock's rather obvious demeanor. "You can call him, if you want. Or when we get home, if you'd like, you could write something to him. A thank you note." John made the suggestion easily, and Sameer seemed to give it some consideration.

"Maybe I could write the words in English and Dari."

"Or just Dari," Sherlock offered, still looking to instigate apparently.

"Actually," John said, again wondering at how he seemed constantly outnumbered, "both languages sounds like a very good idea. And it might be fun, practice your English writing," John said, effectively overruling Sherlock's playful idea. "Speaking of, you seemed to do very well today. Your English skills are very good now, aren't they?" John complimented him, and of course, meant it. "That had to make you feel good inside."

"Yes, and it was easy, easier than I thought, switching back and forth between Dari and English, helping them."

"It made me proud of you, watching how easy you made it look. Both of us," John said, affirming him gently, then when Sameer seemed just a little uncomfortable with the attention and the praise, he changed the subject back. "Uncle Mycroft probably will enjoy getting mail from you." John patted him, and the boy seemed quite thrilled with the idea.

"Can we do that right away when we get home?"

"Maybe a shower first, but yes."

The rest of the ride, the kids ended up looking out the window, and the trip was drawn out with heavy traffic such that Rosie, exhausted by all the fresh air and running about, had almost fallen asleep as they neared home. At one point, still a ways off, Sherlock grew quiet, pensive, speculating and managed to give John a narrow-eyed expectant look, his arm across the back of the car bench, fingers drumming. One eyebrow was raised as if he were irritated and eagerly awaiting something from John.

"What?"

"Why bother with all of that. Why not just speak up about it, come clean from the beginning, just bloody tell me what you're up to."

"It was fun. Doing something nice for someone that was, well, sort of -- mostly anyway -- a surprise."

"But why the concert tickets? You don't even really care for David Garrett."

"But _you_ do, and that's enough." Sherlock gave him a skeptical look. "I enjoy watching you enjoy something."

Sherlock made a face, as if entertaining a foreign idea, then he launched on the snippy again. "You're not going to be all bored and annoying during the concert, are you?"

"What, you mean like you aren't bored and annoying at least fifty percent of your waking hours?" John punctuated his jibe with a small squeeze over Sherlock's knee, right where he was mildly ticklish. His hands came over John's immediately, defensive, holding them still and preventing another tickle. "I'll enjoy it, I'm sure. He's good, and even though I might not appreciate his talent like you will, it'll still be fun."

"You don't really, truly like that style of music."

"Of course I do." Sherlock made a face when John contradicted him, so John continued. "I certainly enjoy it while _you_ play. And I have for a long time now." The face got sour. "Well, not when you're making intentional screeching ugliness on the violin, but..." Sameer was nodding, agreeing that the screeching wasn't pleasant.

Sherlock seemed to realise something all of a sudden, and his countenance darkened. "You're not wanting to go because he's ... _handsome_ , are you?"

"Is he handsome?" John was fairly certain that he wouldn't recognise David Garrett if he fell over him.

_"John."_

John had an epiphany of his own. "Is that why _you_ want to go see him?" John pressed back, turning the tables.

"Of course not." Sherlock was indignant that John had suggested it, and John made a gesture at him.

"See how ridiculous that sounded? Oh for gods sake." There was a hint of colour in Sherlock's ears and up his neck. "So, I take it he's handsome."

John watched as Sherlock's jaw clenched and the beginnings of a smile threatened. "Well," Sherlock mused, avoiding his statement. "Long as you don't talk while he's playing."

"You know, if you'd rather, I'm sure _Uncle Mycroft_ would use the ticket instead, and you can sit with your _brother instead of me."_

As expected, Sherlock's response was immediate. "Oh no." Sherlock was not the only one who disagreed with that idea.

Sameer was shaking his head at that comment. "You both have to go. Molly's coming over, and we have a movie and stuff all picked out already."

Sherlock chuckled at that, knowing how much Sameer liked hanging out with Molly, how good they were for each other, Rosie included. "No worries. We'll both be going." Plans had already been made, and neither man would have wanted to disappoint the others.

He did actually look relieved at that reassurance.

John couldn't resist, as the car pulled up alongside the kerb, picking at the scab just a little more. "Although, come to think of it, Mycroft might like the performance. Maybe we could add another ticket for your br --?"

"No." The edict was emphatic and serious. The car door opened, and in a whoosh of long coat, Sherlock burst out of the vehicle and headed for their door. The continuous barrage of "no" could be heard even as their 221B door opened. "No. No. No..."

Still humoured, John sighed with exaggeration as Sameer got out of the car, chuckling. He turned to Rosie, to help with her carseat. "Come on you, let's get you inside and into the bath."

She twisted in the seat, wriggling and hindering his efforts. "No. No. No. No..."

John could only shake his head. Time for yet another discussion with Sherlock about the oft-unhelpful example he set.

++

A bunch of weeks later, a package was delivered and waiting on the table in the sitting room when Sameer returned home from school.

"It's addressed to me." Sameer was somewhat surprised, and he picked up the medium-sized box to shake it, consider its weight, and hold it for a moment.

"Open it."

"Or give it to me," Sherlock said, demanding although teasingly. "I can figure it out without opening it."

A few rips of the packaging and Sameer was opening the sealed box and peering in. "Oh wow," he breathed.

Inside, just peeping out of the shipping material, was a large amount of fluffy blue-ness. It was sheer and soft looking even from a distance, and John came over to look. And touch. "There's a card tucked in," John pointed out.

Sameer withdrew the card, quite puzzled, and John angled his head enough to read the words on the envelope. Sameer was written across the front, and another word in symbols he didn't recognise. "My name in Dari," he said, holding it out to give to John even as he pulled out two sheets of paper from within. One of them had recognisable letters and words; the other, symbols that John didn't understand. Sameer smiled, looking first at the bottom of the note for the name. "It's from Farrah. The daughter of that family, from the ... " He trailed off, gesturing, looking for a word.

"Picnic? Party?" John said, quietly, trying to help.

"Yes, party. She's twelve I think."

"I remember her, yes, of course." John smiled encouragingly. "Did you want to read that out loud?"

_"Dear Sameer,_

_"Thank you for your kindness you (and your family) showed us a few weeks back when we visited. My family and I are very thankful to have met you and we look forward to coming to London again. Hopefully we can visit you when we move there. It was nice of you to not only play with us, you and your sister, but to help us with the language. I was very worried until I met you, but now I think we can do it thanks to you. English is hard, isn't it?_

_"I am enclosing a stuffed rabbit. My grandmother makes these, all by hand, to sell in our village. She says they are made with love and stuffed with fun, and the children love them. After we got back from our trip, I told her all about you and asked her if we could send one for you and one for your sister. So here they are. Please enjoy them._

_"Thanks again,_

_"Your friend,_

_"Farrah."_

He set the letter aside and then turned to pull out the bunnies. He set Rosie's pink one aside and carried the blue one gingerly to the couch to study it.

The material was thickly piled, the pale blue fuzz soft like the softest peach skin. The ears were floppy and hung down almost comically low, their shape sweet and relaxed, with the satin fabric lining the ears shiny and made of the same blue colour. The eyes in dark thread were hand-sewn in, rounded in shape and with a gentle, kind expression. The arms and legs were lightly filled and weighted down with a few beads inside to give the rabbit some shape. The nose almost seemed alive, in a slight sniffing position and surrounded by the faintest clear whiskers. A blue, cotton-puff of a tail rounded out the rest of the body, and Sameer flicked at it with his fingers before setting it upright again on his lap. He held the bunny, rounded and fluffy, cradled in his hands. For a long time, he watched it, considering its expression, a kind smile and a fondness about him as his fingers rubbed back and forth, an unconscious stroking.

"It's cute," he said, and brought it to his face to appreciate the whisper-soft fur. "I think I'll take it upstairs."

He's no sooner scampered from the room when John chuckled, saying to Sherlock, "Well, that was a nice surprise."

"As usual, John, yes it was a surprise. But I don't think you realise exactly why. It's not for the reason you think."

"What are you talking about, they had a nice time, wanted to say thank you --"

The sigh Sherlock exhaled was one of long-standing tolerance. And something like disappointment. "I haven't said it lately, but even after all these years, you see but do not observe."

John huffed, checked out Rosie's pink bunny, the packaging, the note, the envelope, and the letters. Coming up with nothing, he gestured back to Sherlock. "What?"

"Idiot." The word, fortunately, was spoken with a large degree of fondness. "Tell me, Dr. Watson. What languages were the notes written in?"

"English and Dari, of course."

"What language was Sameer speaking?"

"English." 

John waited, and Sherlock did as well, finally rolling his eyes and then shaking his head. "What letter was Sameer _reading_ from?"

John glanced over. The one written in Dari was right where Sameer had left it, on the couch. The version in English had fallen to the floor, and had remained untouched and crisply folded from being in the envelope.

"Wow."

"Yes. Sameer read in Dari and spoke in English. Without even probably realising he was doing it." Sherlock grinned at John's still somewhat shocked features. "That's the _real_ surprise here." Under his breath although fully intending John to hear, he muttered, "He just might be smarter than you are."

"Well, I did have _something_ to do with his --" 

Sameer returned to the room, and John cut his retort off abruptly. "What?" he asked, looking between both Sherlock and John, and knowing that he'd interrupted something.

"Nothing," John said casually. "Rosie'll be home from her playgroup soon. You can read her the letter too. Think she'll like the bunny?"

Smiling, he tucked the pink rabbit back into the box and sat back down. "Of course."

++

Later that night, John checked on the children a final time before climbing into bed himself. Rosie, as usual, was all askew in the sheets, her mouth open, her blond curls framing her sweet face. Tucked underneath her chin was the pink bunny, and the soft plush fur moved very slightly in time with her breathing. Quietly, John pulled the door a little more closed before going to check on Sameer. He lay on his side, eyes closed, those long eyelashes catching the faint hallway nightlight. As also was his usual, he had the covers pulled up to his neck and slept without toys in the bed with him. Next to his bed, though, the bedside table had his usual prized possessions: his watch from Uncle Mycroft (complete with some sort of tracking device, John knew but didn't talk about), the photo of Laila, and now, right next to these, sat the blue bunny. It had been carefully arranged, legs and paws neatly in order, ears resting without wrinkle. And out of the corner of his eye as John began to turn from the room, he could have almost sworn that the bunny winked at him. He blinked once, the room remained quiet and still, and he mentally shook his head at his own imaginings. Sameer's door, he also pulled nearly shut as he left, keeping his own bare feet quiet on the carpet and then tiptoeing softly down the steps.

He was still chuckling about that as he climbed into the bed, where Sherlock waited in their darkened bedroom.

"Everyone all tucked in?" Sherlock asked low, the mattress dipping as John slid next to him. One hand reached out to find a hip, fingers spreading out over a warm expanse of skin.

"Oh yeah," John breathed, his voice almost a whisper. "Two kids and two rabbits all accounted for. Three of the four were sleeping."

Sherlock's warm arm came behind John's back as their bodies meshed together, an arm and leg coming to rest across Sherlock's chest and thigh. There were times that touching in that position was a precursor to simply falling asleep, comfortable and warm and connected, their breathing slowing down as sleep overtook them. More often, like tonight, that simple touch led to firmer muscle tone, legs seeking, the faintest press becoming more interested. Insistent. Intimate. "You do realise," Sherlock said again, his mouth coming to rest against John's temple as he rolled his pelvis closer to the upward motion of John's knee - carefully, "that the rabbits are inanimate."

"Obviously." With a confident lurch, John's hands and arms guided Sherlock's body as they rolled together. John leaned into the mattress as Sherlock's upper torso rested overtop him, up on his elbows. Their breath intermingled. "Like the skull." The words were quietly spoken, but as he'd hoped, ended with a chuckle from Sherlock.

"Exactly."

No further words were necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just squint at the details. It started out as a simple idea and then I chased a **plot bunny** or something (many apologies for that, but how could I not?!). The point was more about Mycroft being in a position to do something nice - which he ended up doing for both Sameer and Sherlock. Which of course benefited John too.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. One little chapter left of this little trilogy.
> 
> ++
> 
> And not that it matters too much, but David Garrett is a real musician (violinist) and is indeed quite handsome.
> 
> ++
> 
> And yes, you know who you are, dear and faithful reader: the blue bunny is for you.


	3. Mrs. Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't always John Watson who has an eye for those details. Mrs. Hudson, bless her warm little heart, has her own ideas about something Sameer does - _and doesn't_ \- say.

"You're sure you don't mind?" John asked Mrs. Hudson again, worrying just a little bit as his lower lip until Sherlock reached out a long leg to surreptitiously step on John's toes.

Mrs. Hudson, of course noticed, and swatted at Sherlock's elbow. "Stop that and be nice." Meanwhile, John jerked his foot away, getting it safely out of Sherlock's ridiculous long-limbed reach. There was some glaring that followed between the men, although both of them knew better than to even _attempt_ to glare at Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson said she was fine. It's just an evening, John. Dinner, a show."

"It's going to be late."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head at the both of them. "Now boys." She angled her chin, managing to look like a grumbling teddy bear as she pursed her lips. "We're going to have dinner, go for ice cream perhaps later, play a game, read a book. Think about bedtime provided you haven't completely ruined their bedtime routines with your shenanigans." Mrs. Hudson was smiling fondly at John's still-quite-obvious hesitance. "I've managed to survive both you and Sherlock, several explosions, a random attack from one of your more notorious clients, not to mention visits from first responders of almost every sort: fire, police, ambulance, MI-6, and of course we mustn't forget the other Mr. Holmes, you know, _Mycroft_ in that --"

"All right, stop." John's smile was resigned but genuine. "I know. It'll be fine, we'll be on our way then, and thank you very much."

++

Sherlock's long legs continued down the street, his formal-wear a lovely sight as he tugged at his collar, smoothing his bowtie, adjusting the sleeve so it broke nicely over his watch. One sidelong glance was all it took, and he groaned. "Not one word."

"What?"

"I don't want to hear it." A brow raised in a vague threat. "They're fine."

"I wasn't going to --"

"Yes, you were. I know your tells. You get a little hitch in your breathing and the right side of your eyebrow furrows just a little deeper when you're worrying about the children."

"Stop it, I was not --"

With a teasing, sinister growl, Sherlock took John's arm and lunged, taking them both in a flash down the hidden alcove between a couple of buildings. It was almost completely black there, out of the glow of any streetlamps or signage. They both breathed a little heavy as Sherlock nudged at John's chest. "I'll give you something to worry about." He tucked his knee between both of John's as he eased them back against the wall, using his hands to prevent smudge or damage to John's tuxedo jacket. "You realise, distraction is a far more enjoyable activity. Far better than your incessant worrying."

"I know," John breathed, making a conscious decision to embrace the moment as he raised his hand to Sherlock's face, guiding their lips toward each other. "Long ago, I would have asked you what's the worst thing that could happen." He kissed, then licked, then nipped very slightly at Sherlock's bowed upper lip. "But now I'm afraid that your answer would be unthinkable. And unhelpful."

There was a deep chuckle, and Sherlock skimmed his long fingers down John's front, pinching very slightly against John's pectoral muscle before coming to rest at his belt, just barely resting over it. "Don't make me resort to these sorts of devious tactics tonight."

"Promise."

The rest of the walk to the gathering place was uneventful, and John reassured himself that the evening was going to be quite nice all around.

++

"Show me," Mrs. Hudson said as Sameer took the book from her. They'd been talking about Afghanistan, and food, and Sameer had been reminiscing about something he used to enjoy, a dish his mother used to make, and in the telling, he'd recalled the book that Sherlock had ordered a while ago. "What shall we make for dinner?"

"Hot dogs!" Rosie chirped immediately.

A burst of laughter came from Mrs. Hudson, knowing that John's aversion and Rosie's quest for that particular food item were inversely proportional and quite vehement - and in opposition. "I don't think so dear." Although Mrs. Hudson made a face at the suggestion, she tapped at the book. "I think we're going to choose something from here, go shopping, and then we're all going to fix it together." Rosie wrinkled up her nose. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Hot dogs sound better, to me," she grumbled and went to find something else to do that didn't involve reading or selecting food not to her liking or knowledge.

Sameer sidled up next to her on the couch as she held the book and turned pages slowly through the entrees.

"There!" he said, finally, pointing. "That one. We ate that a _lot._ "

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat as she prepared to pronounce the recipe. _"Qabli Pulao."_

Sameer pointed to the photo. "It didn't have that other stuff in it, though." His fingertip rested on the meat. "She made this a lot, sometimes added whatever grew in the garden, or was ... on sale for only a little ... at the market." There was a faint frown. "But not usually. And not meat, not in ours."

Mrs. Hudson's fingers, worn and lovingly, tucked at Sameer's brown hair as he brushed his hand somewhat fondly over the photo.

"I'm sure your mama's was the best, this meal. But do you think, maybe Sameer, we can try this? We could maybe try adding some meat, like the photo. Would that be all right?" Mrs. Hudson didn't have to wait long for him to answer with a nod. "Lamb or chicken?"

"Chicken," Sameer said quickly. "Lamb's better but it's too expensive." His smile was sweet, and a cloud darkened his features as he realised what he'd said. "Chicken, if it's not too much?"

"Oh, I suppose," Mrs. Hudson said with an exaggerated, low key sigh. She could feel her maternal heart just breaking at Sameer's behavior, his worry, at his young age, being so aware of money and the need to scrape by. She wondered how many nights they had gone to bed hungry, and an idea struck her. Raising her head, she said with a loud exhale, "I'm rather partial to lamb, but if you really insist..." She kept half an eye on him, considering how much to push, definitely not wanting him to take her comment the wrong way. "Haven't had lamb in so long," she whispered, knowing she was playing him and considering - not for the first time - that for all she put up with from John and Sherlock, that this was perfectly all right.

"No, that's all right." Sameer's words were kind as he smiled up at her, and even from her vantage point next to him, she could see that he was approaching excited about the idea. “Lamb is good.” There was still a worried look about him, and he added, "If you're sure that's all right. And tomorrow, I can ask papa to give you money?"

"Oh no dear, that won't be necessary. It's my pleasure."

It had been a long while since Sameer had asked for word clarification with her, as usually he picked up enough on the conversational nuances of the words. "Pleasure?" he repeated. "Like, _please_?"

"Sort of," she said, setting the book aside. "Pleasure means, it feels good. It's nice. Or satisfying." With a kind hand, she chucked him under the chin and held him there so she could smile down into his sweet face. "I'm happy to do it, perhaps that's the best way to explain it."

++

The evening was a delight for all of them. Rosie even appreciated the cooking process, helping a bit while wearing one of Mrs. Hudson's aprons that was so big on her it nearly dragged to her feet. The meal ended up being quite a success, and Sameer did finally confess that he absolutely, hands-down loved the lamb in the dish. Occasionally he'd had it with chicken, more often beans.

"Not as good as hot dogs would have been, though," Rosie said as she scampered down after precariously carrying her plate over to the sink (with some steadying help from Mrs. Hudson). "Maybe next time." She paused, considering, looking back at them both, and put her hand on her hip. There was no small degree of sass as she declared, "Next time, it should be my turn to choose."

"We'll see," Mrs. Hudson said, trying to conger up enough seriousness to pull off the knowledge that it was unlikely.

"I will clean the dishes," Sameer said then as Rosie went back to find the box of toys in the other room. Glancing at the kitchen counter, Sameer looked at the food prep detritus with a bit of dread, just given the number of them.

Mrs. Hudson stated, "And I will help you." He looked as if he were going to protest, but she leaned in, "It'll go so much quicker with two."

"All right."

In a very short time, the table was wiped, the worktop restored to order, and the final dish was rinsed off.

"Thank you dear," Mrs. Hudson said to him as he held out a towel to receive the last of the dishes that they'd just finished washing.

Sameer got a small sparkle in his eye. "My pleasure."

Although she mostly was able to resist the urge, knowing that she didn't want to make the boy uncomfortable, she could no longer stop herself. Gathering him into her arms, she allowed herself a few minutes to revel in the hug that he not only allowed but returned. Her lips pressed a sweet, grandmotherly kiss on his hair before letting him go.

"That was fun, thank you," Sameer said, emotion high in his voice. "Mama would have liked that."

Mrs. Hudson could feel her eyes moisten, and she made sure to grin back at Sameer. "I'm glad. And she would be so proud of you, you know?"

A satisfied smile, one that could only radiate from within, appeared on Sameer's face. His eyes, those bright, blue, John Watson eyes, glistened at her affirmation, and a faint connection sizzled between them before he too scampered off after Rosie.

++

The house was silent when Mrs. Hudson finally heard the outer door open, tired footsteps treading on the stairs, and the door to the flat pushing wide. In came one very tired couple - John, his jacket open, tie off, shirt still buttoned all the way up, and Sherlock, also dragging, exhausted, though all of his accouterments still firmly in place.

"How was your night? They behaved?" John asked, keeping his voice low.

"Of course they did. Probably better than _you_ both did." Mrs. Hudson stood up, smiled at her Baker Street boys, and tried to ignore the impish look that - even in their exhausted states - they gave each other. "Now, off to bed with you. Before you do something that embarrasses me," she said, pecking one and then the other on the cheek. Her hand clung just the faintest bit too long on John's neck.

"You sure you're all right?" John asked, his hand grasping her arm, sensing and feeling and intuiting ... something. "Sameer is ... He wasn't upset or anything was he?"

Sherlock's long legs were already carrying him down the hallway toward the bedroom, his jacket being removed, tie loosened, and grumbling that John was keeping Mrs. Hudson up too late already.

"No, he was fine, John. Absolutely fine." Their eyes met, held, and locked. It occurred to Martha that this was the second pair of these bright eyes she’d connected with that evening. "It was absolutely my pleasure."

John could see and hear the emotion, the faint amount of extra moisture in Mrs Hudson’s kind eyes. "You'd tell me if --"

"He was fine."

"Thanks."

"G'night."

The door shut quietly, the lock snicking into place. John snapped off the few remaining lights before following Sherlock down the hallway. He paused at the doorway to their bedroom, decided to - briefly - poke his head upstairs, to see for himself that the kids were indeed asleep, safe, resting. Moments later, he joined Sherlock, who was already tucked under the duvet, waiting with open although sleepy arms. Their legs intertwined, a shifting of body parts - arms, shoulders, hands - until they were comfortably nestled together. Carefully, a knee flush with a thigh, a shoulder burrowed, warm breathing, muscles relaxing against the mattress and each other.

A breathy question. "You tired?"

"Mmm."

"Too tired?"

"Later maybe."

"All right." An arm tightened then relaxed behind John's back, a quiet exhale, a willingness yet a relief at the same time. Sleep, also a worthy pursuit after the long day they'd had.

A quiet lull fell through the building at 221 Baker Street - two tired children upstairs, two sated and sleepy adults seeking slumber on the main floor. Beneath them, one tired not-housekeeper smiled fondly, appreciatively, as she settled into bed herself. 

And, stomach full of lamb, well wishes, and a job well done, she slept too, comfortable in the knowledge that tonight had been quite a success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dish in question, Qabli Pulao, it is a popular Afghani steamed rice dish topped with raisins, carrots, and lamb. It is often served with naan. I can only imagine Laila, Sameer's mother, trying to feed them sensibly, cheaply, and without spending a lot of money that she didn't have. Bless Mrs. Hudson for working her manipulative magic to get Sameer what he probably really wanted deep down. 
> 
> I wonder who she learned and perfected all that manipulative behaviour from?
> 
> ++
> 
> Posting probably without the usual edits - please let me know gently if there is something unclear. Thanks for reading. I am so _completely_ enjoying sharing these little snippets of this family with you.

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter, Molly.
> 
> Chapter 2, Mycroft.
> 
> Chapter 3, a little snippet with Mrs. Hudson.


End file.
